We live in a house with an odd lineage. The kernel of the house is an 1885 rowhouse, but it's been added to in various ways, some nonsensical when you look at it in perspective. One of them, a since-enclosed back patio, is uninsulated and not on a proper footer. We made plans to remove and replace it with a two-story addition, which is when the fun began. After tossing tens of thousands of dollars down a figurative hole, the ownership was resolved, but we are left with the patio. And so this winter, as each before, when the ground freezes, the door frame racks and we cannot open the door to the outside. You know, the door to the room where the bikes are.
My bicycle is about control, or the illusion of it. I control the destination and the route. I keep myself moving, in shape. And sometimes, you just need to be reminded not everything is out of your control.
Today, like the others, I climbed the hill. "Up!", "Go!", "Push!", I told myself. I paused at the top, on the edge of the ridge line, and gazed over the frozen city before returning home to continue working.